


We Don't Sing This One

by Peril_in_Peace



Series: The More Things Change [4]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: After Earth visit, F/M, Gen, Kraglin feels guilty, Pops is FAMILY, Pops' POV, Post-Infinity War, Post-Movie: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, Slice of Life, Team as Family, dad peter, mom gamora, teen Groot, with feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-15 06:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12315918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peril_in_Peace/pseuds/Peril_in_Peace
Summary: Yondu’s ghost is everywhere on the Third Quadrant. For Peter’s crew, it’s natural; even welcome. For Pops, it’s a hard thing to square.He decides he wants to try.AKA: Pops didn't really think a quick visit was enough to get to know his long-missing grandson, did he? Really? Anyway, Peter and his family are a package deal.





	1. Chapter 1

The human-lookin’ fella hadn’t stopped staring at him.

Of course, he was being quiet about it. Hiding it pretty well. He was careful not to catch his eye, kept his distance.

But still, Gregg could damn well tell when he was being watched.

At first, he figured it was because he was actually the weird one here. Fair enough. But nobody else seemed to have a problem.

Pete and Gamora had been staying with him for the last week. He’d already met the racc-- _Rocket_ the not-raccoon. The tree kid was actually _nice_ … apparently tangling with that Thanos guy and going through some Real Shit had tempered Groot’s prickish teenage attitude (at least for a while), or so Peter had explained.

Mantis, the bug-girl and Peter’s “kinda-sister” hugged him timidly and smiled broadly, as if she was showing off some great skill in doing so. Drax had clapped him on the back, laughing boisterously, and pre-offered him the largest portion of that evening’s family meal.

He’d caught barely a glimpse of Gamora’s sister, the blue girl, talking seriously with Gamora just outside the edge of hearing shortly after they’d come aboard. She didn’t seem like the warm and welcoming type, and that was fine.

But the skinny man with the red mohawk…

Peter had introduced him as his oldest friend, practically his brother; Kraglin, who he’d known “his whole life” (and Gregg knew what that _really_ meant). And Kraglin had whisper-quiet given him a deferential “Sir,” shook his hand firmly, and melted into the bulkhead, disappearing as fast as he could.

If Peter noticed, he hadn’t said anything. Didn’t say anything about it now, as he stood beside him and followed his gaze out to the giant blue world filling up the deck-to-overhead windows of the bridge.

“It doesn’t, if you were wondering,” Peter said.

“Doesn’t what?”

“Get old.”

Gregg hadn’t realized it, but he was. Wondering.

He’d seen interviews with astronauts, talking about spending another week up on the space shuttle or a year on the ISS, making nice with the media, saying _no, no… it never gets old. Seeing the earth from space…_ but he had heard the same thing from green pilots and helmsmen saying _certainly_ , the view of the clouds from above or the endless sea couldn’t _possibly_ get old…

And after a long career, it was almost always a different story.

“You sure that’s not just you?” Gregg asked gently. Peter laughed a little, self-consciously running a hand through his hair.

“No, it might be.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that.”

“Yeah. Yondu used to say that, too.”

 

* * *

 

Gregg let out a low whistle at the sight of the battered ship.

“You guys were _in_ it when… you know…?” He waved at the _Milano,_ scorched and scarred, hanging from a series of chains in the _Quadrant’s_ small hangar. Rocket shrugged, hefting a sparking tool of some kind.

“Meh. Looks a lot worse on the outside than it actually is,” the critter answered, nodding to him to follow toward a round, open hatch below the nose of the craft. “Ya shoulda seen ‘er after Quill crashed us on Berhert. Spent almost half a year rebuildin’ after _that_ mess.”

Gregg ran his hand over a small spot of undamaged hull before ducking into the ship. “This sorta thing happen a _lot_?” he asked. An involuntary shudder ran down his spine at the decades-old memory of his own smoking Phantom disappearing into the ocean with an eerie, distant silence as he dangled helplessly from a parachute.

Rocket started counting on the claw-fingers of his free hand. “Well, I’m not sure how much Quill beat her up before he had me around to clean up after him, but in the last four years? She was in _pieces_ when the _Dark Aster_ crashed--Nova Corps rebuilt her for us. Couple months later, the Sovereign kicked our asses, and between that quantum asteroid field and the crash, about a quarter of the ship was actually _gone_ , and what was left was… ugh. It was kinda a teardown, to be honest. Then, there was that thing with the--”

“And you keep rebuilding her? Why not get a new ship? She’s a little small for all of you anyway, right?” Gregg asked, looking around.

Rocket laughed. Hard.

It sounded fake.

“That’s a fake laugh,” Gregg mumbled, wondering what was _so_ ridiculous as he kicked lightly at a panel of loose wires that was on the deck but clearly didn’t belong there.

Rocket stopped dead and quirked a menacing eyebrow, before his lip quivered and curled into a lopsided grin.

“Yer alright, old man,” he said approvingly, before turning to a cavernous opening in one of the bulkheads. He stuck his head and his tool-wielding paws into the dark, his tail swishing and voice muffled.

“And to answer your question, we did. Granted, adopting the _Quadrant_ initially wasn’t exactly _intentional_ , but it’s worked out. And ain’t no _way_ Quill’s gettin’ rid of the _Milano._ She’d hafta get vaporized with him inside. Hell, only reason he flew ‘er inta the _Astor_ was ‘cuz he figured we were all gonna die fighting Ronan. He’s an optimistic guy like that.”

Gregg was about to follow up by asking _why_ again… he loved his Mustang, but not so much that he’d rebuild it from the ground up after seeing it flattened by an eighteen wheeler on the highway… what could be so--

“Where in the hell did the kid find a damn hi-fi out here?” Gregg asked, wandering into the crew quarters. He ran his fingers over the textured surface of the stereo, gently twisting at what he guessed was the volume knob… it had what looked like writing on it, but he couldn’t understand it…

“A wha?” Rocket asked, poking his head out.

“The tape deck,” Gregg clarified, pointing. “And tapes? Where would he find any damn tapes?”

Rocket shrugged. “Pete said Yondu installed that for him. Well, the first time, long time ago, on the original _Milano,_ before the rebuild on Xandar. Prolly found it on Sakaar. Whole place is one big junkyard. And Pete just had the one tape… from his ma. ‘Till after Xandar, and he opened that box he’d been totin’ around and started playin’ the second one. It was a nice change. For about a week...”

“One tape. He’s been playing that one tape his mom made him for… for thirty years?”

“If I weren’t such a cynical asshole, I might say it was a little heartbreakin’. But, fortunately, I’m a cynical asshole.”

“Jesus…” Gregg whispered, sitting down in front of the tape deck, noticing that it was empty.

“Groot loved it, though. When he was little, he couldn’t get enough. Quill would put his Walkman next to his pot and sing that Mr. Blue Sky song or ‘I Want You Back,’ and Groot would wiggle around like an idiot--”

For a cynical asshole, Rocket’s expression sure looked wistfully nostalgic.

Gregg chuckled at the thought of Groot tiny enough to fit into a flower pot, dancing along to Peter singing songs playing from--

_“C’mon, Pete. Let’s take these fool things off…”_

Gregg remembered that night in the hospital _so clearly._ It was the night his daughter died, for God’s sake. And the night his grandson disappeared. He’d never forgotten a single detail.

 _“C’mon, Pete. Let’s take these fool things off…”_ He’d crouched in front of Peter, just not really knowing what to say. Gently tugged the headphones away, pulled the Walkman out of Peter’s hands and carried it, leading him into Meredith’s room.

He’d tucked it into the boy’s backpack. Later, the gift, the tape Mer’d asked him to wrap, went into the bag right on top of it.

_...‘Till after Xandar, and he opened that box he’d been carryin’ around and started playin’ the second one. It was a nice change..._

And Pete had carried around that Walkman, that had kept him company while his mama was sick, and it kept him company while he was alone out here. Played that one tape, over and over and over again. And he carried around that box… he carried it around, his whole life…

Gregg glanced back at the empty tape deck and ran his fingers over the buttons. He suddenly really wanted to--

“Don’t suppose one of those tapes is lyin’ around? Been awhile since I heard one of my kid’s mixes. She had good taste,” he asked, voice a little more gravelly than he’d hoped.

Rocket shook his head. “Ain’t had a tape to play in years. Didn’t Quill tell ya what happened with his-- with Ego?”

“More or less. What’s that have to do with the tapes?”

“He squished it--the Walkman. Crushed it in his hand, with the second tape. First one blew up with the planet.” Rocket paused for a second, twirling his spindly tool in his paw. “Yondu had it right all along… there’s evil, then there’s just bein’ a jackass. That asshole really was both.”

 

* * *

 

In many ways, the _Third Quadrant_ was a lot like any number of carriers and troop transports he’d been aboard in the Navy. There was something weirdly homey and comforting about being surrounded by metal decks and bulkheads again.

Of course, there were differences.

Naturally, the portholes didn’t peek out onto odd sea sprays and endless waves. And the view from the bridge was… indescribable.

The crew was smaller, intimate, and much more relaxed. Chores got done, things got fixed, watches were covered… and the whole machine was remarkably well-oiled... but it all reminded Gregg much more of being in a warm home than on a well-armed vessel speeding through the cold of space.

Case in point, the galley.

It didn’t take long to understand fully that Drax was in charge here; Mantis, the ranking apprentice.

And for as common as it was for anyone to graze on various snacks whenever struck by the urge--the galley was almost as busy as the bridge at any given time--attendance at ”evening meal” during third watch was a simple expectation.

The meal itself was an uncomplicated thing. Peter and Gamora had explained when planetside that fresh food was often hard to come by, given the stretches between ports with good trade for perishables. But Drax was, surprisingly, quite skilled in his craft--having long ago and with arduous practice, developed habits for meeting the dietary needs and tastes of his diverse family. And he was teaching his protege well.

Tonight, Mantis was in charge, putting the finishing touches on what seemed to be a stir fry; using some vegetables and meats from Earth, but a sauce she seemed to have made many times before.

Peter had his little music player connected to a pair of speakers, so permanently set on a far table in the mess that they’d gathered a fine layer of dust. He and Gamora casually sang along to “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” as a duet (that would earn them free drinks in any Tokyo Karaoke bar he’d ever been to on leave) while they set out mismatched stacks of dishes and utensils.

Rocket wandered in with Groot in tow, about halfway through that “ABC’s” song by the Jackson Five, and just in time to sit down to the meal. Apparently, Groot had been giving Rocket a hard time about some chores, so Peter and Rocket good-naturedly jibed at the adolescent tree about how he _used to be fun_ before he _got all moody._

Groot narrowed his eyes and snapped “I _am_ Groot!” at Peter, with clear attitude before chomping at a leafy handful of spinach for emphasis.

The comment must have been a doozy, because the whole table suddenly went quiet and not-so-subtly looked over their hovering forks at Peter.

Peter set his jaw and glared back.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. And then got up and left the room.

Drax, Gamora, Mantis, Rocket, Kraglin and Gregg himself all turned and stared at Groot who made a mighty effort to pretend he didn’t see them.

Gamora looked down at her lap, then and said very quietly, “You will give him five minutes to cool off, and then you will go and correct this.”

“I a-” Groot started to protest before Gamora darted her eyes upward to look straight at him across the table. His mouth snapped shut and he came down with either a sudden bout of conscience or superb acting; he pulled his hands under the table and cast his eyes down, looking genuinely contrite.

Gregg thought he saw a flash of red glowing from Kraglin’s mohawk out of the corner of his eye.

“Don’t get me wrong, kid…” the pirate mumbled indelicately around a mouthful of food. He swallowed and looked squarely at Groot. “Talkin’ shit is a definin’ characteristic of a brat yer age. Now Pete weren’t gonna say it, but I will. Only it really don’t need ta be said.” Kraglin’s mohawk flared.

“‘Cuz you know _exactly_ how good you have it. Ain’t okay sayin’ otherwise.”  

Groot nodded, slid his chair back, and silently excused himself.

Gregg set his fork down gently, looking around the table. Gamora was shoveling around the food on her plate absently, glancing up at the doorway like she was debating following after Groot herself, while Drax silently shook his head at her.

“Was it really that bad? What he said?” Gregg asked Kraglin quietly. Kraglin looked over at him, a little uncertainly, before shaking his head.

“Naw. Me ’n Pete prolly have matchin’ arrow scars on our ass cheeks fer sayin worse when we was his age. But he knows better. Anyway…” Kraglin thoughtfully scrubbed at an ancient gouge in the table top. “Pete ain’t got an arrow or a hungry crew ta threaten a mouthy kid with. Not that he would if he did. He’s tryin’... ya know... real fuckin’ hard... to do better’n that.”

Gregg nodded silently. Kraglin nodded back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pops and Groot; A practical errand is run.

Gregg had been looking for Peter, but found Groot at the  _ Quadrant’s  _ helm, having relieved Nebula so she could grab some leftovers. He was checking a screen and bobbing his head, humming along to a girl singing a pop song about spiderwebs (and answering machines?). He recognized it as being real popular in the 90’s, but didn’t recall the name of the band. 

“Hey,” he said. 

Groot paused to reply, glancing up from the gibberish on the translucent tablet with a smile. 

“Iron everything out with Peter?” Gregg asked, crossing his arms. Groot looked back at his screen and nodded. 

Gregg stepped back and sat down in what he figured to be the commander’s seat; it was in the middle of the bridge and closest to where Groot was at one of the helm stations.  Aside from a few trinkets on the console, it was otherwise free of most of the screens and controls at the other posts, and more than anything else aboard the craft, Gregg was terrified of touching something he shouldn’t. 

He tapped at a little bobble-head dog, almost positive that it was actually one of those dumb little Taco Bell chihuahua toys from years ago, and raised an eyebrow. It looked new enough; the other chachkies were a bit dusty, though seemingly well cared for… if a little out of place.

Anyway, not important. 

“Mind if I sit here for awhile?” he asked. His companion shook his head, but didn’t look back. 

Gregg took a deep breath in through his nose and tried to relax. He looked down at the chihuahua and the little crystal frog next to him, as if they might dole out some sage advice or pithy space wisdom, but the dog just gently bobbed his head. 

The spiderweb song ended and one he recognized immediately came on. He’d been a big Cat Stevens fan in the 70’s, preferred the calmer, folksier feel to a lot of the rougher stuff coming out at the time. 

This song had always made him a little sad, though… he’d never known his father. And hearing it had always made him feel, a little more acutely, what he had missed out on, for better or worse. 

Even so, when he realized that Groot remained silent for this one, Gregg hummed quietly to himself. 

It took him a moment to notice when Groot shut off the music and started staring at him. 

“What?”

“I am Groooot,” the young tree insisted seriously. 

“That bad?” He tried to sound playfully regretful for his off-key humming, but couldn’t help but feel from the look on Groot’s face like he’d done something terribly wrong. 

Groot rolled his eyes and skipped to the next song. Springsteen,  _ Because the Night _ . As it played, Gregg tried to remember the words to  _ Father and Son _ past the first verse, but it’d been a long time.

“You know…” He swallowed and looked back down at the little toys. “That was more about him than it was you. You do know that, right?”

Groot glanced back at him reflexively, but Gregg could see his expression change, like he was trying to make himself look disinterested. The old man smiled, knowing better. 

“Pete walkin’ away like that. Wasn’t because he was mad at  _ you _ , kid.” Gregg shrugged, looking away from Groot, and forced himself to look equally nonchalant. “He was mad at himself. Whatever you said… got him thinkin’ bad thoughts. Things he didn’t want you to hear him say. Things he didn’t want you to see him do. That’s why he left.”

The “I am Groot” that came was so quiet that Gregg almost missed it. Groot didn’t look at him. His head was down, eyes out at the stars ahead. Even though Gregg knew they were moving fast through space, it seemed like they weren’t moving at all. 

“What’s that, son?” he asked softly. Groot sighed. 

“He asked how you know,” Gamora answered. He felt her stop silently behind him, then drop a gentle hand to his shoulder. He took a deep breath, smoothing the wrinkles of his right hand with his left. 

“Well… I’ve had a lot of years to make peace with… a lot of hard things. But when I was younger…” He shook his head. “There were times when I  _ should  _ have walked away, but didn’t… and I ended up saying or doing things that… were… hurtful. That were full of anger. That I regretted. That made the people I loved look at me in ways I didn’t like. 

Thing is… you can apologize. You can try to make amends… but once you put bad stuff out there, you can never  _ really  _ take it back. The damage gets done, and sometimes it won’t ever be fixed back the way it used to be…”

Groot looked back at him, his eyes big. Gregg smiled at him. “I think  _ everybody _ learns that the hard way. Hurting or bein’ hurt.”

And suddenly, almost out of nowhere, the trinkets on the console  _ made sense _ , as Gregg recalled a story Peter told him about a stone and a troll doll, and he realized he knew  _ exactly  _ whose chair he was sitting in. He stiffened, and felt Gamora tighten her grip on his shoulder.  

“Peter… He learned the hard way, didn’t he?” Gregg whispered, poking at the chihuahua again, and thinking about what Kraglin had said at dinner.

“Yes,” Gamora said. “But he learned.” 

* * *

 

There seemed to be no end to the equipment and weaponry. Gregg was honestly torn between being intimidated and impressed. 

Between Rocket, Peter, Kraglin and Nebula, they’d patched up the  _ Milano _ enough to make the short hop from the  _ Quadrant _ in orbit down to the colony on the planet below. Apparently, despite being a bit of a lawless backwater, this Krylorian settlement had the best equipped medical center on the way to Xandar’s solar system. 

Rocket had called it “supply and demand.”

As Gamora guided the  _ Milano _ down for a landing at the small spaceport, Drax and Peter prepped to go planetside, plucking favored weapons from crates and racks along the bulkheads. 

Drax slipped large knives into his boot sheaths, then added a couple of shorter daggers to another sheath at the small of his back. Peter pulled the edges of his red duster back, attaching his pistols to the holsters at his thighs. A knife disappeared into his long coat, then he pulled on a pair of fingerless gloves, flexing his hands into fists until the light padding on the knuckles was seated just right. 

For his part, Gregg stuffed his hands into the pockets of his old fleece-lined leather jacket. 

“Elder Quill,” Drax said. Gregg jumped a little. Last time he saw the large man, he’d been over by Peter, and now he was suddenly right in his ear. 

Holding a rifle. 

“Uh--”

“It would be wise to arm yourself,” Drax continued, handing him the weapon with a head nod and a bright smile. 

“Thanks.”

Peter’s foot dropped from the crate it was propped on as he finished attaching something to his boot. He grinned reassuringly. “It’s less about using it, more about being seen with it.” 

“Ah,” Gregg answered, hefting the rifle, and examining the mode toggles and trigger mechanism. “Though, if I  _ do  _ need to use it…?” 

Peter nodded and skirted a couple of small crates on the floor, making his way over to Gregg and Drax. “Safety,” he pointed to a switch on the top of the trigger housing. “Single-shot, semi-auto,” he pointed at the toggle positions and shrugged. “Point and shoot, really.” 

Gregg nodded. The shape and weight were familiar enough, and it felt right at home slung over his shoulder by the wide leather strap. 

“Hmm. I like that gun. Don’t lose it.” Gamora slipped past him, giving him a quick, approving once-over before grabbing another, much larger rifle from one of the racks. She opened the strap and clipped it across her chest, adjusting the weapon on her back. Peter wordlessly handed her a slim, metal rectangle that she clipped to her hip, before he pulled his knapsack on over his head. 

Gamora tilted her head in Gregg’s direction. “Peter,” she said. He looked up and followed her line of sight. 

“Oh! Right. Drax, don’t open the hatch yet,” Peter said, stepping back over to stand right in front of him. He reached his hand up to his right ear and pulled away a little piece of metal. 

“So,” he began. “The atmosphere is totally breathable, but… shit, when I was a kid, it took weeks of being sick constantly before Yondu finally figured it out and found some clinic that would give me the right immunizations.” Peter pressed the the metal to the bone behind Gregg’s ear and looked him square in the eye. “I know you’re not going to be out here with us long, but…”

“Don’t wanna get some fancy space flu,” Gregg nodded. “Gotcha.” 

Peter smiled. “Right, so when we get the translator chip, we can also order a round of vaccines. If that’s okay.”

“No arguments here,” Gregg shrugged. 

“Anyway, in the meantime… This is gonna feel weird. But you’ll get used to it. And it’s just temporary,” Peter started reaching back toward the device behind his ear, before stopping and looking back at him, expression dead serious. “I mean it. I need this back.”  

“Yes, sir,” Gregg smirked. Gamora snorted behind Peter and tried to hide her grin from Gregg. Unsuccessfully. 

Peter rolled his eyes and lightly touched the device. The mask materialized over his face. 

Gregg thought he was ready, but the mask was stifling. He  _ knew _ it was more psychological than anything. Like the feeling of being dependent on a little trickle of air from a scuba tank when diving for the first time. But the air in the mask was thick, so humid he almost felt like he was underwater. He gasped, involuntarily reaching for it, to tear it from his head. 

“Hey, nonono… Pops, calm down--” Peter grabbed his hand and held it. “Open your eyes,” Peter ordered. How did he know they were closed? Gregg did as he was told. Peter’s face swam in front of him. He expected it to have a red glow, but the view was clear, except for a few indicator lights and a HUD with some words written in a language he couldn’t read. 

“Take a deep breath,” Peter said. The hand on his shoulder disappeared and the air got a little thinner. “That’s as low as I think I can turn the filter down. I know it’s swampy, but it’s clean. Just breathe. It’ll get easier.” 

Gregg took one deep breath, then forced himself to find a rhythm. This was easier than dive training. He had two feet on solid ground, no tank to lug around. And Peter squeezed his shoulder. Gregg squeezed his hand back and nodded. He had this. 

“Better?” Peter asked. Gregg looked at him and nodded again. Peter smiled. 

“You can talk. Try saying something.” 

“Luke… I am your father…?”

Peter blinked. Then grinned broadly. Then laughed and… 

Hugged him. Pulled him in with the grip on his shoulder and wrapped both arms around him and held him. Gregg patted Peter’s back slowly, but didn’t say anything more. 

“Twenty-five years, I’ve been wanting to make that joke…” Peter mumbled into his shoulder, then pulled away. “Can’t believe you’re the one that pulled it off.” He shook his head, smiling and wiping at the corner of his eye. 

“Quill, is this another ‘outlaw name’? And you’ve made it repeatedly clear that Yondu was your  _ only  _ father… How can this man be both your grandfather and--”

Drax spoke in a mix of exasperation and a genuine logistical confusion before Gamora smacked him upside the head. 

“What?” Drax glared at her. 

Peter glared at Drax too, as he sidestepped past him to the panel next to the hatch. He opened it and slowly shook his head at his large colleague. 

"Shut up, Drax. Just… shut up. Don’t… ruin the moment, man.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is admittedly a bit of a short interlude. More meaty bits are incoming. The end is written... but I keep having IDEAS for interactions with everybody and can't bring myself to not write them. So... thank you for indulging me. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pops v. Kraglin.

Despite generally feeling better than he had in  _ decades _ , Gregg had a whopper of a headache. 

Besides the translation chip and immunizations, they’d had the med center throw in something like a laser eye surgery (with no laser--he still wasn’t sure  _ exactly _ how they did it), a few vitamin boosters and some kind of super-dialysis… and while he didn’t quite feel  _ young _ , he certainly felt young _ er,  _ and it was wonderful… 

But the doctor had said this might happen. It was terribly rare, she’d warned (this was during the pre-chip consultation, of course, so Peter had translated), for someone of his age to be fitted with a translator, and his brain would need to adapt. 

And even then, the device would never work as well for him as it would for someone who got one during childhood or adolescence, while still undergoing language acquisition.

So… headaches. And a weird multilingual feedback when anyone spoke, now… 

He  _ knew _ what was being said… but he also knew that they were speaking languages he didn’t know. He could tell the difference… could feel the… lag? … While the chip processed. 

“Does this mean we can stop speaking that infant babble, now?” Rocket crooned when they’d gotten back to the  _ Quadrant _ , meeting them in the corridor outside the hangar.  

“Dude, that’s my native language,” Peter glared back defensively, leading the way through the narrow passage. “A little respect, please.”

“What, it’s not like you even speak it,” Rocket grumbled.

“That’s not the point,” Peter snarled.  

Gregg stopped walking and frowned at that. “You don’t?”

Peter stopped too, turning from scowling at Rocket to looking at Gregg plaintively. “Well, Pops… it’s not like--”

“What kind of a stupid--” Rocket interrupted. “That’s like askin’  _ me  _ if I still use chirps and squeaks. Why  _ would  _ he?” 

Gregg thought back to a sleepless night back in Missouri, the night he and Gamora had shared beers on the porch waiting for Peter to come home after seeing Kurt Russell on tv. And he had wondered, tossing and turning… 

...About why Peter had never come home. 

_ Why would he? _

Gregg  _ recognized  _ the knot in his gut as being totally irrational... Which was why he did the smart thing. He pushed past Peter, and kept walking. 

Behind him, he heard Peter trying to call after him. Gamora was laying into Rocket, who was arguing back. And underneath it all, his head hurt. And so did something deep in his chest, somewhere between his stomach and his heart. 

Yup. Better just to think right then, than to say anything.

 

* * *

 

A whole universe was open to him now, and what was he doing? 

Homework. 

Gregg mindlessly rubbed at his nose, where the pads of his readers dug into the skin, realizing too late that the glasses weren’t there. 

He squinted at the tablet in his hand, marvelling again that all of the words-- glyphs? Characters…? Were perfectly clear. He hadn’t  _ not _ needed reading glasses since, well, jeez… since Peter was in kindergarten? But here he was, reading up on an alien culture in an alien language, with his own eyes. In his goddamn eighties. 

Gregg looked around the mess hall, setting down the tablet and stretching his back. The lighting was dimmed somewhat--it was first watch, the early hours of the morning in ship’s time, but he was wide awake. Honestly, though… he was sort of grateful for the time alone. 

Which Kraglin seemed to recognize. He’d come in half and hour ago, slipped silently through the mess hall and into the galley and hadn’t come out yet. 

Gregg sighed. “You don’t have to eat in there standing up. You can come sit down,” he said just loudly enough.  

For a minute, nothing happened. Gregg figured Kraglin was pretending to not be there or something. That was fine. He picked his tablet back up and tried to find his place. 

It actually helped to read out loud to himself. Which he was doing (he felt a bit like a first grader sounding out tough vocabulary) when Kraglin eventually, cautiously took a seat with a bowl of soup. 

Gregg looked up from his reading and raised an eyebrow at the pirate, seated at the furthest possible table away from him. 

As far as he figured, Kraglin had had a couple of choices. He could have stayed in the galley and then quietly left when he was done, he could have taken his snack and eaten it somewhere else altogether… 

Or he could do as he’d done and stayed. For some reason. 

“Wanna chat, son?”

Kraglin looked up at him, mid-slurp. He looked down at his soup, swallowed, then mumbled something. 

“What’s that?” Gregg asked. Kraglin shook his head and cleared his throat. 

“Don’ call me that.”

“Okay.” 

“I ain’t yer son.” 

“‘Course not. It’s just an old man’s bad habit. I’m sorry.” 

“Arright, then.” 

Kraglin went back to his soup, slurping at another spoonful. Gregg glanced at him expectantly, but the other man seemed to be ignoring him again. 

Several minutes passed, Kraglin slurping and Gregg reading, managing to get through a full page without much of a headache, before Kraglin’s spoon clanged into an empty bowl. He got up and disappeared into the galley, before returning and gingerly sitting back down opposite the older man.

“You shouldn’t be peeved with him,” he said, softer than Gregg would have expected. “You know it weren’t his fault.”

“What are you talking about?” Gregg asked. 

“He didn’t say  _ anything  _ for almost the whole first year. We weren’t even sure his translator was workin’... ‘Cept for the fact that he did as he was told. Ate, slept, worked…” 

Gregg rapidly figured it out, then just listened, nodding slightly for him to continue, but Kraglin was looking down at the table. 

“Then one night, he woke me up and asked me if it was all  _ really real _ , that he figured if it was a dream, he’d been asleep too long and was probably dead.”

“He never told me that,” Gregg whispered.

“He don’t remember.” Kraglin shook his head. “Anyway, those were his first words after screamin’ his lungs out that first night. Once I realized he was actually talkin’, I told ‘im it  _ were  _ all real, and he just… went back to bed. Next day, he walked up to Yondu in this very mess, pulled them headphones off his ears and said he was sick’a cleanin’ and wanted to learn how to ‘fly a plane.’ Yondu ‘bout shit himself.” 

Gregg  _ almost _ laughed, if not for the nagging  _ ache  _ in his chest.

Kraglin sat for a minute, with a faraway look in his eye. He’d seen it hundreds of times… 

Gregg wasn’t naive. He’d seen horrible things, how cruel people could be to one another. He knew perfectly well that even on Earth, maybe  _ especially _ on Earth, being a young and isolated species compared to the suddenly big and advanced universe out there, human beings were still very much about mere survival. 

That a  _ happy  _ childhood was a  _ luxury _ . But… 

“He was just a kid.”

“Not since the day his momma died he weren’t.”

Gregg pursed his lips and shook his head. “No. Hell no, sir. That boy had a family. He had me. He was gonna be fine… No, if that was the day, then it was because he got snatched away from the only home he’d ever known. That was on your lot. On Yondu.” He took a deep breath. If Kraglin had any intention of arguing back, he didn’t show it--or maybe he did. His bony jaw was clenched so tight Gregg thought he could hear teeth grinding. 

“You know, I don’t get it. You--you, I get. Lookin’ up to your captain. I get that. I can understand. But I’ve been trying to wrap my head around  _ Peter _ … this…” he felt the frustration finally bubble to the surface, with Kraglin as an actual, real and responsible target. “Goddamn hero worship--”

The sound Kraglin made was either a tooth cracking or a startled, barking laugh. 

His continued cackling quickly settled the question. Kraglin’s eyes squinted shut as he leaned back and tried to catch his breath after a moment. “You kiddin’ old man? We talkin’ about the same brat? Pete fuckin’  _ hates _ Yondu. He hates me. Hates the way he grew up. He ain’t stupid.” 

“So  _ why _ ?” Gregg asked. “Why did he  _ stay _ when he could have left? Why does he call Yondu  _ his dad _ ? Carry him around the way he does?”

Kraglin sat back, slinking down in his chair, not out of shame or fear, but practiced laziness. The man seemed to be made of liquid, with a lifetime of learning exactly how to get comfortable for long stretches in these very seats. 

“Ya know… this ship…” he finally started, his eyes everywhere but Gregg. “Used to be part of a much bigger one. The  _ Eclector _ . Yondu’s galleon, our home comin’ up. It was old. Hundreds of years, generations old… you get an idea being here on the  _ Quadrant _ . Point is, ship that old wears out. Gets beaten up and beaten down, but it’s yer home and it keeps you alive, so when it breaks, you fix it. When it springs a leak, you patch it. ‘Til eventually… she’s been so tore up that she ends up with a skin of patches so thick, she's stronger’n the day she came off the line. Scarred up somethin’ awful… but now she can survive just about anything.”

The pirate smiled. “He was... a greedy sonofabitch who dropped wrongs faster’n the law could keep up. Naw… greedy and prideful and ‘played for a fool’ ain’t a combination sittin’ well with the Captain, so he kept his cargo from Terra. I wish I knew when… how it changed for him. When Pete stopped bein’ stolen cargo and became his. But it happened, sometime early on, and even though he tried to hide it, everybody knew… Cap’n was goin’ soft. So he had to be e’en harder. 

“Anyhow, Yondu… he had a lot in common with his ship. And maybe he figured that if livin’ hard, takin’ knocks to get stronger kept him alive, it would work fer me, fer any man on his crew, and fer li’l Quill, too. Ya see fer Yondu… weren’t ever about bein’  _ happy _ … happy childhood…” he laughed sadly and shrugged. “Prolly never even crossed the cap’n’s mind. Not ‘cuz he were cruel, just ‘cuz he didn’t know what one was.”

He got quiet for a second and took a deep breath. 

“He loved his boy. That meant protectin’ him, especially from his jackass father--who frankly scared the shit outta him. So he taught him to survive the only ways he knew how. Ways  _ he _ did. Peter didn’t know that growin’ up, but he knows it now.” Kraglin squinted an odd sort of grimace.

“It weren’t simple. And Pete ain’t stupid.” Kraglin looked at him, then, really looked at him for the first time since he’d come aboard. “Ain’t you ever… felt… you know… more’n one thing before… at the same time?”  

Gregg swallowed and dropped his eyes to the table, quickly squashing any specific thoughts; he slowly nodded. 

His grandson’s oldest friend pursed his lips and leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. A bead of red lit a trail through the side of his mohaw-- _ fin.  _ “Look… for what it’s worth--I’m sorry. I been meanin’ to say… For what me and mine did to yer family. It weren’t right. Ravagers don’t deal in kids. We got a code and it’s a good one. Yondu was punished for what he did. I weren’t much older than Pete when I joined the crew… but it was my choice, and it was better than where I came from. He didn’t have a choice, an’ that was wrong. 

“But I ain’t sorry it happened. Yondu weren’t. And if you asked Pete, he’d say the same, what with his ‘greater good’ kick he’s been on, and all. Fact is, if Yondu hadn’t done what he did, you, me and everybody else, would be dead. Pete, prolly worse than dead, he’d say. Somebody else woulda come for ‘im if it weren’t us.” 

Kraglin’s fin flared. “But yeah… fer what it’s worth… I’m sorry.” He winced apologetically. “And also, I ain’t.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel so bad this chapter took so long. I had a goal in mind, and went waaay past it. I have not worked so hard on a bit of writing in 15 years (since college!), and have re-written parts of this over and over again, a little bit every day after work... I still don't think it's quite right, but this could have been just interminable...
> 
> I am so grateful for your comments and for your patience! I do believe the upcoming bits are moving a lot more smoothly now that I'm over the hump. :) *knock on wood*
> 
> Coming up: Pops and Mantis and feelings; Pops and Drax on life and love


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Peter-and-Gamora moment; Pops and Drax; Pops, Mantis and the Zune.

Gregg had tried to get some sleep after his talk with Kraglin in the mess hall. However, the combination of his brain working on overdrive, still getting used to a non-circadian schedule with no natural sunlight, and whatever drugs and vitamins the clinic on Rohalish III gave him... well, he wasn’t getting any sleep in what was left of the night shift. 

At home, he would have puttered around the house, fixing or cleaning or otherwise wasting time. If the weather was good, maybe he’d take a walk. Here… he still wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. Aside from him, everybody had jobs to do, even between “Jobs” with a big “J.”

Though, he still didn’t know exactly what that meant, aside from occasional galaxy-saving. The closest he’d come to an explanation was when Peter excitedly made Gamora watch several episodes of “The A-Team” on TV Land during a marathon, until she finally played along and argued with him over which character each of their friends was. 

When they couldn’t agree on Mantis, Gamora had exasperatedly thrown her head back and  _ begged _ Peter to  _ please _ turn this nonsense off so we can go out for ice cream again...? 

Gregg chuckled to himself, aimlessly meandering through the quiet, dim corridors. It wasn’t exactly his half-acre, but exercise was exercise.  

He found, almost too late, that he was heading toward the bridge. Someone was bound to be there--while the ship didn’t exactly need constant flying, the bridge was almost never left unattended or at least unmonitored via one of Rocket’s remote comms devices--and he was still rather enjoying his small measure of solitude. 

_ Faithfully _ , by Journey, played soft and slow as he leaned against the bulkhead and peeked through the passage into the bridge. Gregg could see the top of Peter’s head over the back of Yondu’s seat at the center command station, one knee propped up on the armrest, some pink-tipped black hair falling over it. Gamora’s legs, crossed knees to bare feet, were bent over the other armrest and floating off the side. Peter lazily twirled a lock of her hair around one of his fingers.  

She reached up and stilled his hand, weaving her fingers between his and turning her head just a bit. Peter’s head dipped down; they must be talking, but Gregg couldn’t hear them. Peter shook his head, rolling it against the headrest and Gamora uncrossed her legs, dropping one to the deck and pulling his hand closer to her. 

Gamora lithely pushed herself out of the chair and pulled Peter up in one fluid motion, despite his lack of cooperation. She smiled at him and reached her arms up, clasping her fingers around the back of his neck. She said something quietly, and he smiled, dropping his forehead to hers and his hands to her hips, matching the slow rhythm of her sways. They weren’t quite in time with the music, but Gregg was pretty sure it didn’t matter. 

He liked the view. It wasn’t that he would call himself a romantic… but Gregg had just seemed to end up one of those people who saw nothing but the shit end of the relationship stick. All he knew about his parents’ marriage was from the stories his mother had told him… which were romantic as hell, but, he was quite sure, also embellished by a woman trying to make herself feel better about being alone after he died. His marriage to Louise was tense at worst and… amiable at best, but never romantic. And he didn’t even want to start thinking about the shitshow that comprised Meredith’s most serious relationship. Its one redeeming quality was that, like his own marriage, it had produced a pretty awesome kid. 

He’d sometimes thought about what it would have been like… Meredith living, finding the right guy someday, getting married… walking her down the aisle. Gregg never got to do that. 

Gregg realized that his cheek was a little damp, and he reached up with his sleeve to dab at it, trying not to sniff and make any noise. There were a lot of things he never got to do. Or see. And probably wouldn’t ever. 

But this was a good view, though. 

A hand fell to his shoulder. It was gentle, and didn’t especially startle him, but Gregg turned immediately all the same. Drax had a faint, peaceful smile on his face when he looked down at him. He jerked his head back in the direction they came, and Gregg nodded, following when Drax turned and wordlessly led away from the bridge. 

They ended up in what Gregg had taken to calling the “living room.” It just happened to be a larger open area, with fairly comfortable furniture, where it was easy to relax in one’s off time. It had a close enough approximation of a couch and some plush chairs, though their age and general hygienic status were up in the air (he couldn’t help but think of Louise on road trips, worrying around “filthy” hotel rooms with rags and bleach, and wrapping handles in plastic). The highlight of the space was a big viewing window, almost as large as the one on the bridge. 

Drax made his way over to a small counter, where there was a big water pot under shelves of various boxes, cartons and containers, including the can of Folger’s Instant he’d brought along and a few tins of different tea blends he thought Gamora would like. 

It turned out, Drax  _ really _ liked coffee. He should have brought more. 

The large, shirtless alien prepared two cups of coffee, stirring the crystals into the metal mugs with surprising daintiness, before carrying them over to Gregg, already sitting by the big viewing window. 

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, blowing gently on hot coffee and watching the stars. 

“Had she lived, my daughter might have started her own family by now. When I realized this…” Drax trailed off, still staring into the black, but Gregg knew all too well where he was going. 

“You started grieving her all over again.” 

“Not just her. There was a time, when I could only see her as being the child she was… but now, I see the future she never had, the battles she would never fight… perhaps the wedding she would never have, the grandchildren Hovat would never hold…”

“I’m sorry,” was all Gregg could say. 

Drax nodded solemnly. “I know that you are.” 

Gregg took a long sip of his coffee and stared into the cup, swirling around the undissolved grounds at the bottom. “I never thought I’d see him again. I…” He hoped he wasn’t being hurtful, but… “I can’t even say, how grateful I…”

“Was your lost loved one as you imagined?” Drax asked quietly, genuinely. Gregg shook his head. 

“I didn’t.” 

Drax’ forehead wrinkled in confusion. 

“Imagine.” Gregg grimaced, waiting for Drax to nod before he continued. “It was hard. I could only go so far out… a little bit of a childhood, maybe… wondering about how school would go, maybe what kind of job he might have had, if he’d stayed on Earth… but… I just couldn’t picture much beyond that. And… I didn’t want to think about…” He sighed. 

“It was easier… with Meredith. Maybe it sounds bad… but it was… final. She was gone, for good. Anything I thought up was…” He shook his head. “But Peter was  _ taken _ , not dead. He might have been, for all I knew, and somehow… that was worse. Not knowing. And I just couldn’t… Beyond a stray thought here and there… it was too much like getting my hopes up.” 

“I am sorry,” Drax smiled wanly. And Gregg knew that he was. 

He leaned back, running a finger around the rim of the mug. “I got a second chance. I’m so grateful. So why do I feel so… not?” Drax just listened as Gregg gathered his backstabbing thoughts into actual words for probably the very first time. “I  _ am trying _ to just be… happy with what I got after never expecting anything at all. But no… I’ve got this… deep green resentment, and an  _ anger _ \--” he subconsciously balled his fist up at his gut. “That I just can’t seem to shake. And this  _ loss _ , even though I’ve been  _ given _ this gift.”

Gregg looked at Drax, a little more pleadingly than was probably dignified. 

“Just because you have recovered what you’ve lost,” Drax concluded, “Does not mean the loss did not occur and does not warrant mourning.”

Gregg nodded and blew out a long, slow breath. “Every day that went by was another one I didn’t get.”

“And that others did.”

“Am I a selfish man, Drax?” Gregg raised his eyes.  

“You are a man,” Drax smiled. “Who does not intend to waste another day.”

 

* * *

 

“How are you?” Mantis asked. He hadn’t realized she was standing over him. He’d been lost in thought for hours, since Drax had left in frustration at Rocket’s harried insistence that he needed “muscle” help with something on the ongoing  _ Milano _ repair. 

Gregg smiled and gestured for her to sit down. “I’m fine, darlin’.” 

“I hope I am not interrupting?” She held Peter’s little music player in her hands, nervously rolling a wire between her thumb and forefinger so that one of the earbuds twirled. 

“Nope.”

Mantis gingerly sat down next to him, holding the music player almost lovingly with both hands in her lap. 

“You were… upset yesterday,” she started. Her antennae twitched slightly. “You were sad that Peter did not really speak your language anymore. Like he did as a child.” 

“Way you say it, sounds all metaphorical,” he smiled, trying to make her feel a little more at ease. 

Mantis looked at him pointedly. “I am being very literal. He no longer speaks English,” she stated, then shrugged and clarified softly, “It would  _ not  _ be very practical.”

Gregg chuckled. “No, I suppose not.” 

“So you are no longer upset?” She asked, unabashedly hopeful. 

“Naw… think I was just a little surprised… hadn’t thought about it, and was a little blindsided for no good reason at all.” 

“Well, that is definitely a good thing. But… I would still like to show you something that I hoped would make you happy.” Mantis beamed. 

Gregg really, honestly couldn’t help but smile back at her. “Oh yeah?”

Mantis held out the music player with both hands. Gregg tried to receive it from her with equal reverence, quirking a questioning eyebrow. 

“You were sad and thought that Peter had left your homeworld behind or forgotten it, because he did not even speak his home language anymore,” she said softly, looking down at their hands still touching around the device, as if she were speaking to  _ it _ and not actually to him. 

Her antennae glowed and she looked up as that thought crossed his mind. “I wanted to show you that he has not forgotten.” 

She pressed a button on player and the screen lit up, showing familiar song titles and artists. Mantis smiled at him happily. 

He looked at her smile, then over at Drax, who had, at some point, sat back down in the chair across from him, another cup of (presumably,  _ his _ goddamn coffee) in his hand. He was also smiling, and Gregg wondered for a moment, where, when and  _ how _ his grandson had managed to surround himself with this kind of actual  _ love  _ and what  _ he  _ ever did to deserve it, too. 

“He sings,” Gregg said softly. 

Mantis nodded. “Every day. He knows all of his songs, and sings them just as they are.” 

She pointed at the device excitedly. “We all have our favorite songs… there are so many! So Peter said we should each make playlists, like the one Yondu made.” She clicked a button a couple of times, and several playlists appeared, each named for one of her friends, except for the one at the top, titled “Awesome Mix Vol. 3.”

Mantis kept talking while Gregg considered how he felt about  _ Yondu  _ carrying on where his daughter left off. 

“... I like the Cranberries and Beeyor--Bjork, Kraglin likes Cheap Trick… Groot likes a lot of songs, but I think he likes the Smashing Pumpkins and No Doubt the best. Drax… you like Foreigner and Bryce Springsteen, don’t you?”

“Bruce,” Gregg absently corrected. “Bruce Springsteen.” 

“ _ Streets of Philadelphia _ is indeed a stirring composition,” Drax agreed. 

“You know this music almost as well as Peter does, don’t you kiddo?” Gregg asked, turning to Mantis. She smiled shyly. 

“It… makes me happy.” Gregg nodded, and didn’t miss the paternal grin Drax quietly hid behind his mug. 

“Anyway,” she continued, “You should also make a playlist. So that we have all of your favorite songs, too.” 

Gregg was genuinely touched. 

He turned the device over in his hands, then ran his fingers over the buttons, resisting the urge to reflexively poke at the screen. “You’re gonna have to show me how to use this thing.” 

“Oh… Kraglin said that Yondu got it for Peter because Zunes were very popular on Terra. Do you not have one?” Mantis replied. 

“A real expert on Earth, that Yondu?” he deadpanned. Mantis blinked a couple of times. 

“I believe that was sarcasm,” Drax said proudly.  Mantis’ expression shifted to one of exaggerated realization. Gregg smirked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In "Mustangs and Spaceships," it's mentioned that Pops witnessed Peter get taken (if you haven't read it). I'm basing this on the super sad deleted scene or scene idea in a featurette from Guardians 1 where exactly that happens... (Been a long time since I saw it, but remember James Gunn said he didn't put it in because he thought it was too sad). 
> 
> Ultimately, I just think it's more heartbreaking for Grandpa Quill to go thirty years thinking Peter's been done in by some earthbound serial killer and they never found the body, or something... So Pops has known all along (or at least since the night she died), that Meredith wasn't crazy and that Peter was beamed up by a spaceship. :) For better or worse. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because sorting things out is what you do when you love someone.

 

“Hey.”

Peter scooted around and dropped his legs over the side of one of the _Milano’s_ wings to look down at him. “Hey.”

Gregg held up the Zune. “Mind if I hang on to this a little longer?”

Peter grinned. “Mantis?”

“Yeah,” Gregg smiled, shifting his weight from side to side. “She’s uh, got me makin’ one of those playlists… but I don’t even really know half’a the stuff on here.”

“I didn’t either,” Peter nodded, with a little, wistful smile. “It was great.”

“Shoulda gotten you an iPod while you were on Earth. You’d never run outta tunes.”

Peter shrugged. “Yeah, Parker said something about that, too. Maybe I’m just more of a quality over quantity guy.”

“Good man. Lotta garbage out there anyway. With the internet, now, everybody thinks they can be the next goddamn superstar. I swear, there’s folks who are literally famous for being famous... ”

Peter chuckled. “Aw, that’s not so weird. You’ll see when we get to Xan--”

His face fell, and he paused before silently sliding down the wing, dropping the good three meters to the deck and landing on his feet. He pulled a dirty rag and a small screw-driver-looking tool out of his back pocket and threw them into a nearby open crate.

“News?” Gregg asked. Peter shook his head.

“Nothing new, really. Just… updates. More of the same.” He sighed. “Only reason there’s anything left at all is that there’s a lot more to the Nova Empire than Xandar itself,” Peter said quietly, without looking up. “All we did, stopping Ronan, was buy them a little more time.”

Peter inhaled and stood up straight, as if trying to physically bolster his resolve. “Kinda makes sense, why they agreed to all this, though… lifting the restriction on Terra and opening relations. What’s left of Nova Command is so desperate, they’ll accept help from almost anyone.”

Gregg didn’t really know what to say to that. He’d been getting as much reading done as he could in the time they had left before reaching Xandar, watching vids and preparing… but even without _all_ the details (though he was surprised how extensive the information on the Ronan incident was…), he knew that it was… personal for Peter, for all of them.

He knew enough to know that Thanos had hit Xandar before heading in Earth’s direction, and… it had not gone well.

“I keep wishing we’d been there…” Peter ran a hand through his hair.

“ _I_ don’t. _Christ_ …” Gregg shot back. Peter huffed out a sad laugh.

“‘S’what Gamora said.” Peter stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared up at the rafters. “She says it wouldn’t have made a difference.”

“Smart girl.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that we left that stone there, made Xandar a target in the first place.” He swallowed hard. “Should’a just gave it to Yondu. Would have solved a lot of problems.”

Gregg shrugged. “Would have been the wrong thing to do, though. He probably knew that, too, don’tcha think?”

Peter seemed to consider that, before responding. “Nope.”

“No?”

The boy shook his head. “No…” he breathed. “No, I think he knew exactly what we had. He never could have _said_ it… but I think he knew what a spectacularly horrible idea it was to leave that thing on a planet like that, no matter how well-defended. I mean, fuck... they needed _our_ help to stop Ronan… how were they gonna stop Thanos, if he came for it?”

Peter sat down on the ramp up to the _Milano’s_ hatch, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know, since he died, I’ve wondered if he helped us that day for more than just the money… like he did it to get the stone, get it away from me… keep it safe… me safe from it.” His lip curled up a little before he continued quietly. “I wonder if he knew I could use it.”  

“Ever do you any good?” Gregg asked, strolling over to the ramp. Peter looked up at him.

“Huh?”

“Goin’ through all the ‘what if’s’ like this.”

Peter squinted back a half-hearted glare. “Pot. Kettle.”

Gregg pursed his lips. “Fair.”

He sucked his tongue and slipped the Zune into his back jeans pocket before sitting down next to Peter. “I was talking to Drax…” he started, a little uncertainly. “He said somethin’... well…” He looked at Peter. “What else are you wondering about?”

“What do you mean?” Peter turned his head, brow creased.

“I mean… Well, I mean… not like I can tell you what _Yondu_ was thinking about anything, but… _me_ … maybe your mom… Like, when you asked about that picture of her and… you know…” Gregg waved his hand and Peter nodded. “Stuff like that. It’s a… good chance, we’ve got.”

Peter dropped his head between his arms, nodding silently at his feet. They sat quietly for a moment, and Gregg wondered if he’d put Peter too much on the spot. He was about to tell him so, that if there was nothing to ask, then that was just fine… but then--

“Anything?” Peter’s voice was very small. He didn’t look up.

“I’ll tell ya if you’re crossin’ a line.”

“Okay,” Peter said. “Okay… There’s one thing, for now…”

Gregg propped his arms on his knees and folded his hands. “What do you wanna know?”

“What… happened? After I um… Got picked up?” Peter asked, wringing his fingers. “I always figured you maybe… thought I was dead… maybe you looked for a while, but would have given up after not too long. Bad things happen to runaways all the time. But… you didn’t sound… surprised when I called.”

Peter cleared his throat before continuing a little softer. “You never believed her. Never… but… _none_ of this has _surprised_ you.”

Gregg didn’t answer right away. The big hangar doors were across from where they sat, big viewing windows breaking up the alloy doors. He looked out at the stars.

It was the first time he noticed how unsurprised he _was_ by the view.

“I _wasn’t_ surprised,” he finally said. “Maybe a little… long time gone by… but… I knew you didn’t run away.”

Peter looked at him, then. Gregg shrugged. “Someone at the nurses’ station saw you bolt, came and got me. I was too late, o’course… but I saw enough.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Fuck.”

Gregg snorted. “Yeah.”

“What… um… what did people say? I mean, like grandma… and mom’s friends and stuff…?”

Gregg started shaking his head mournfully before Peter even finished the question. “Never told.”

“What do you mean, you never--”

“Just what I said. I never told. I saw that light suck you up, and walked out onto that lawn and watched a ship, just like this one--” he gestured broadly at the _Milano_ \-- “fly off. I sat down on a bench, smoked three cigarettes, and walked back into the hospital... all the while trying to figure out what _to_ say. Never did come up with anything.”

“So what--”

“Happened?” Gregg hunched in on himself, involuntarily. He hadn’t smoked in 25 years, but suddenly, thinking as he was right now, the urge hit him. Not so much for the cigarette itself, but just to hold it, something to do with his hands.

“Louise--your grandma, she asked me where you were. All I could say was that you were gone. She did everything from there. Called the cops, filed the missing person report, the whole nine. I let her. Kept her busy, while I took care of things with your mom. She stayed in the house for a couple weeks… for the funeral, to pester the police about your case… but of course, they didn’t have anything to go on.

“So she flew back to Virginia, and I promised to call if anything changed… but we didn’t speak again until a few years ago. Only because I thought she deserved to know about what happened with the cemetery and stuff.”

Gregg glanced back over at Peter. “She passed away last year… your grandma.” Peter nodded.

“Yeah… I got the good news/bad news spiel from Stark’s A.I.”

Of all unexpected things, Peter dropped his head to Gregg’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Pops.”

Gregg smiled and shook his head, bringing his arm around Peter’s back and lightly squeezing his opposite arm. “Not your fault.”

“Still.”

Gregg waited a beat, building up his nerve. No more wasted days. “Can I ask _you_ something?” he said.

“Sure.”

“When you got your ship, started going out on your own… how come... you never came home?”

Peter blew out what must have been every trickle of oxygen from his lungs, like a mom taking a lamaze class. He clasped his hands behind his head and fell back on the ramp.

“Crossed the line?” Gregg asked. Peter shook his head.

“No… just… there’s a lot to it.”

“Mmm.”

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. “Comes down to being scared, I guess. Really fuckin’ scared.”

“Of _what_?”

“Well… for one thing, Yondu put a lot of effort into making going home sound terrifying. Threatening all sorts of bad shit if I even thought about it. I mean, _now_ I know why he did it, but then? _‘Know what Nova Corps’ gonna do to ya if ya break that blockade, boy?_ ” Peter mocked, his voice deepened in a lazy drawl. “ _Don’t matter if it’s yer home planet, they take that shit serious. Know what they do to littl’uns like you in the Kyln?..._ ” He shrugged. “It was all bullshit, but I didn’t know that when I was a kid.

“Then, it was other stuff… figured out he was probably lying about running the blockade by the time I was 17, I mean, _he_ did it to grab me in the first place… must not be that hard. But… more time passed, and I started to think… maybe there was nothing to go back to. Mom was dead, and you were getting older… What if I got there, and you were dead, too?”

Peter paused.

“For that matter…” he started again, then winced.

“What?”

“Don’t laugh. Please, don’t laugh.”

“ _What_?”

“Do you remember that movie, ‘E.T.’?” Peter asked, propping himself up on his elbows.

Gregg chuckled (Harmlessly. Honest.). “You hated that movie. Had nightmares for weeks.” He remembered... little Peter loving the movie, then flipping out when the feds showed up...

Peter raised an eyebrow and turned away. “Yeah, well. They’re worse when _you’re_ the alien.”

Oh.  

Peter’s face scrunched up. “Didn’t imagine it would go over too well, landing my friggin’ _spaceship_ in the middle of a cornfield…”

Gregg mentally kicked himself. “No… probably not,” he admitted.  

“Pops…”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks… for telling me that stuff. You were right… I was wondering.”

Gregg nodded, carefully examining the wrinkles on his hands. “So was I, kiddo. Thanks for settin' me straight." 

Peter looked over at him, a little confused, but ended up just nodding. 

Something settled quietly in Gregg's chest. It felt like Sunday morning and Thanksgiving and driving with Meredith or Peter on his lap. Something like the feeling of home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than usual, but I felt like this bit needed to stand alone. 
> 
> Summary inspired by Supernoodle, because it couldn't have been said better. :)


End file.
